by Ian Rankin
But someone had. Someone most definitely had.
By the time Jack got back, Rebus had changed into jeans and a gaudy T-shirt bearing the legend DANCING PIGS. A couple of woolly suits had been round to inspect the damage and scribble some notes. They gave Rebus a reference number. His insurers would want it.
Rebus had already moved some of the furniture out of the living room into the hall, and placed a ground-sheet over everything else. The other sheet went on the carpet. He lifted the fishing-boat painting off the wall.
‘I like that,’ Jack said.
‘Rhona gave it to me, the first birthday I had after we were married. Bought it at a craft fair, thought it’d remind me of Fife.’ He was studying the painting and shaking his head.
‘I take it it didn’t?’
‘I come from west Fife – mining villages, rough – not the East Neuk.’ All fishing creels, tourists and retirement homes. ‘I don’t think she ever understood.’ He took the painting through to the hall.
‘I can’t believe we’re doing this,’ Jack said.
‘And on police time. Which would you rather do, paint the walls, strip the door, or fit the lock?’
‘Paint.’ With his blue boilersuit on, Jack looked the part. Rebus handed him the roller, then reached under the sheet to put the hi-fi on. Stones, Exile on Main Street. Just right. The two of them got to work.
23
They took a break and walked up Marchmont Road, buying groceries. Jack kept his boilersuit on, said he felt like he was undercover. He had a smudge of paint on his face, but didn’t bother wiping it off. He was enjoying himself. He’d sung along to the music, even though he didn’t always know the words. They bought junk food mostly, carbohydrate, but added four apples and a couple of bananas. Jack asked if Rebus was going to buy any beer. Rebus shook his head, chose Irn-Bru and bricks of orange juice instead.
‘What’s all this in aid of?’ Jack asked as they sauntered home.
‘Clearing the mind,’ Rebus answered, ‘giving me time to think … I don’t know. Maybe I’m thinking of selling.’
‘Selling the flat?’
Rebus nodded.
‘And doing what exactly?’
‘Well, I could buy a round-the-world ticket, couldn’t I? Take off for six months. Or stick the money in the bank and live off the interest.’ He paused. ‘Or maybe buy myself a place outside town.’
‘Whereabouts?’
‘Somewhere by the sea.’
‘That’d be nice.’
‘Nice?’ Rebus shrugged. ‘Yes, I suppose so. I just fancy a change.’
‘Right next to the beach?’
‘Could be a cliff-top, who knows?’
‘What’s brought this on?’
Rebus thought about it. ‘My home doesn’t feel like my castle any longer.’
‘Yes, but we bought all the painting stuff before the break-in.’
Rebus didn’t have an answer to that.
They worked the rest of the afternoon, windows open to let out the paint fumes.
‘Am I supposed to sleep in here tonight?’ Jack asked.
‘The spare room,’ Rebus told him.
The phone rang at half past five. Rebus got to it just as the answering machine cut in.
‘Hello?’
‘John, it’s Brian. Siobhan told me you were back.’
‘Well, she should know. How are you?’
‘Shouldn’t I be asking you that?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Me, too.’
‘You’re not pick of the week with DCI Ancram.’
Jack Morton started to take an interest in the call.
‘Maybe not, but he’s not my boss.’
‘He has pull, though.’
‘So let him pull.’
‘Brian, I know what you’re up to. I want to talk to you about it. Can we come round there?’
‘We?’
‘It’s a long story.’
‘Maybe I could come see you.’
‘This place is a building site. We’ll be there in about an hour, all right?’
Holmes hesitated, then said that would be fine.
‘Brian, this is Jack Morton, an old friend of mine. He’s with Falkirk CID, currently seconded to DI John Rebus.’
Jack winked at Brian. He’d washed the paint off his face and hands. ‘What he means is, I’m supposed to keep him out of trouble.’
‘UN Peacekeeper, eh? Well, come in.’
Brian Holmes had spent the hour tidying the living room. He saw Rebus’s appraisal.
‘Just don’t go into the kitchen – looks like an Apache raiding party’s ridden through.’
Rebus smiled and sat on the sofa, Jack next to him. Brian asked if they wanted anything to drink. Rebus shook his head.
‘Brian, I’ve told Jack a wee bit about what’s happened. He’s a good man, we can speak in front of him. OK?’
Rebus was taking a calculated risk, hoping the afternoon’s bonding had worked. If not, at least they’d made progress on the room: three walls with first coats, and half of one side of the door stripped. Plus a new lock on the door.
Brian Holmes nodded and sat down on a chair. There were photos of Nell on top of the gas fire. It looked like they’d been newly framed and placed there: a makeshift shrine.
‘Is she at her mum’s?’ Rebus asked.
Brian nodded. ‘But mostly working late shifts at the library.’
‘Any chance she’s coming back?’
‘I don’t know.’ Brian made to bite a fingernail, discovered there was nothing there to bite.
‘I’m not sure this is the answer.’
‘What?’
‘You can’t make yourself resign, so you’re going to let Ancram kick you out: not cooperating, acting the mule.’
‘I had a good teacher.’
Rebus smiled. It was true, after all. He’d had Lawson Geddes; and Brian had had him.
‘This happened to me once before,’ Brian went on. ‘At school, I had this really good friend, and we were going to go to university together, only he’d decided to go to Stirling, so I said I’d go there, too. But my first choice had been Edinburgh, and to knock Edinburgh’s offer on the head I had to fail Higher German.’
‘And?’
‘And I sat in the exam hall … knowing if I just sat there and didn’t answer any of the questions, that would be it.’
‘But you answered them?’
Brian smiled. ‘Couldn’t help myself. I got a C pass.’
‘Same problem now,’ Rebus said. ‘If you go this way, you’ll always regret it, because in your heart you don’t want to leave. You like what you’re doing. And beating yourself up about it …’
‘What about beating other people up?’ Brian looked straight at him as he asked the question. Mental Minto, sporting bruises.
‘You lost the head once.’ Rebus held up a finger for emphasis. ‘It was once too often, but you got away with it. I don’t think you’ll do that to anyone ever again.’
‘I hope you’re right.’ Holmes turned to Jack Morton. ‘I had this suspect in the biscuit-tin, I gave him a smack.’
Jack nodded: Rebus had told him all about it. ‘I’ve been there myself, Brian,’ Jack said. ‘I mean, it’s never come to blows, but I’ve been close. I’ve skinned my knuckles on a few walls.’
Holmes held up ten fingers: scrapes all across them.
‘See,’ Rebus said, ‘like I say, you’re beating yourself up. Mental’s got a few marks, but they’ll fade.’ He tapped his head. ‘But when the bruises are in here …’
‘I want Nell back.’
‘Of course you do.’
‘But I want to be a copper.’
‘You’ve got to make both those clear to her.’
‘Christ.’ Brian rubbed his face. ‘I’ve tried explaining it …’
‘You’ve always written a good, clear report, Brian.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘If the words aren’t coming
out right, try writing them down.’
‘Send her a letter?’
‘Call it that if you like. Just put down what it is you want to say, maybe try explaining why you feel that way.’
‘Have you been reading Cosmopolitan or something?’
‘Only the problem page.’
They had a laugh at that, though it didn’t really merit one. Brian stretched in his chair. ‘I need a sleep,’ he said.
‘Get an early night, write the letter first thing tomorrow.’
‘Maybe I will, aye.’
Rebus started to get to his feet. Brian watched him rise.
‘Don’t you want to hear about Mick Hine?’
‘Who he?’
‘Ex-con, the last man to speak to Lenny Spaven.’
Rebus sat down again.
‘I had a job tracking him down. Turns out he was here in town all the time, sleeping rough.’
‘And?’
‘And I had a word with him.’ Brian paused. ‘And I think you should, too. You’ll get a very different picture of Lenny Spaven, believe me.’
Rebus believed him, whatever he meant. He didn’t want to, but he did.
Jack was utterly opposed to the idea.
‘Look, John, my boss is going to want to talk to this guy Hine, right?’
‘Right.’
‘How’s it going to look when he finds out not just that your pal Brian’s been there first, but that you’ve followed up?’
‘It’s going to look bad, but he hasn’t told me not to.’
Jack growled his frustration. They’d dropped his car back at the flat, and were now walking down on to Melville Drive. One side of the road was Bruntsfield Links, the other the Meadows, a flat grassy stretch which could be wonderful on a hot summer’s afternoon – a place to relax, to play football or cricket – but scary at night. The paths were lamp-lit, but it was like the wattage had been turned down. Some nights, the walk was positively Victorian. But this was summer, the sky still pink. There were squares of light shining from the Royal Infirmary and a couple of the tall university buildings huddled around George Square. Female students crossed the Meadows in packs, a lesson learned from the animal world. Maybe there were no predators out there tonight, but the fear was just as real. The government had pledged to combat ‘the fear of crime’. It was reported on the TV news just before the latest Hollywood shoot-’em-up.
Rebus turned to Jack. ‘You going to grass me up?’
‘I should.’
‘Yes, you should. But will you?’
‘I don’t know, John.’
‘Well, don’t let our friendship stand in your way.’
‘That helps me a lot.’
‘Look, Jack, the water I’m in is so deep, I’d probably die of the bends coming back up. So I might just as well stay down here.’
‘Ever heard of the Marianas Trench? Ancram probably has one just like it waiting for you.’
‘You’re slipping.’
‘What?’
‘He was Chick before, now he’s “Ancram”. You better watch yourself.’
‘You’re sober, aren’t you?’
‘As a judge.’
‘Can’t be Dutch courage then, which means it’s plain insanity.’
‘Welcome to my world, Jack.’
They were headed for the back of the Infirmary. There were benches provided just this side of the perimeter wall. Dossers, travellers, down-and-outs … whatever you wanted to call them … they used these benches as beds in the summer. There used to be one old guy, Frank, Rebus saw him every summer, and at the end of every summer he disappeared like a migrating bird, only to reappear the next year. But this year … this year Frank hadn’t appeared. The homeless people Rebus saw were a lot younger than Frank, his spiritual children, if not grandchildren; only they were different – tougher and more frightened, wired and tired. Different game, different rules. Edinburgh’s ‘gentlemen of the road’: twenty years ago you could have measured them in mere dozens. But not these days. Not these days …
They woke up a couple of sleepers, who denied being Mick Hine and said they didn’t know who he was, and then hit lucky with the third bench. He was sitting upright, a pile of newspapers beside him. He had a tiny transistor radio, which he held hard to his ear.
‘Are you deaf or does it just need new batteries?’ Rebus asked.
‘Not deaf, not dumb, not blind. He said another copper might want to talk to me. Do you want a seat?’
Rebus sat down on the bench. Jack Morton rested against the wall behind it, like he’d rather be somewhere out of earshot. Rebus drew out a fiver.
‘Here, get some batteries.’
Mick Hine took the money. ‘So you’re Rebus?’ He gave Rebus a long look. Hine was early forties, balding, with a slight squint. He wore a decent enough suit, only it had holes in both knees. Beneath the jacket was a baggy red T-shirt. Two supermarket carrier bags sat on the ground beside him, bulging with worldly goods. ‘Lenny talked about you. I thought you’d be different.’
‘Different?’
‘Younger.’
‘I was younger when Lenny knew me.’
‘Aye, that’s true. Only film stars get younger, have you noticed that? The rest of us get wrinkled and grey.’ Not that Hine was either. His face was lightly tanned, like polished brass, and what hair he had was jet black and worn long. He had grazes on his cheeks and chin, forehead, knuckles. Either a stumble or a beating.
‘Did you fall over, Mick?’
‘I get dizzy sometimes.’
‘What does the doctor say?’
‘Eh?’
No doctor consulted. ‘You know there are hostels, you don’t need to be out here.’
‘Full up. I hate queueing, so I’m always at the back. Your concern has been noted by Michael Edward Hine. Now, do you want to hear the story?’
‘In your own time.’
‘I knew Lenny in prison, we shared a cell for maybe four months. He was the quiet type, thoughtful. I know he’d been in trouble before, and yet he didn’t fit with prison life. He taught me how to do crosswords, sort out all the jumbled letters. He was patient with me.’ Hine seemed to be drifting off, but pulled himself back. ‘The man he wrote about is the man he was. He told me himself, he’d done wickedness and never been punished for it. But that didn’t make it any easier on his soul, being punished for a crime he didn’t commit. Time and again he told me, “I didn’t do it, Mick, I swear to God and anybody else who’s up there.” It was an obsession with him. I think if he hadn’t had his writing, he might have done away with himself sooner.’
‘You don’t think he was got at?’
Hine thought it over before shaking his head firmly. ‘I believe he took his own life. That last day, it was like he’d come to a decision, made peace with himself. He was calmer, almost serene. But his eyes … he wouldn’t look at me. It was like he couldn’t deal with people any more. He talked, but he was conversing with himself. I liked him such a lot. And his writing was beautiful …’
‘The last day?’ Rebus prompted. Jack was peering through the railings at the hospital.
‘The last day,’ Hine repeated. ‘That last day was the most spiritual of my life. I really felt touched by … grace.’
‘Lovely girl,’ Jack muttered. Hine didn’t hear him.
‘You know what his last words were?’ Hine closed his eyes, remembering. ‘ “God knows I’m innocent, Mick, but I’m so tired of saying it over and over.”’
Rebus was fidgeting. He wanted to be flippant, ironic, his usual self – but now he found he could identify all too easily with Spaven’s epitaph; even perhaps – just a little – with the man himself. Had Lawson Geddes really blinded him? Rebus hardly knew Spaven at all, yet had helped put him in jail for murder, breaching rules and regulations in the process, aiding a man who was feverish with hatred, spellbound by revenge.
But revenge for what?
‘When I heard he’d cut his throat, it didn’t surprise me
. He’d been stroking his neck all day.’ Hine leaned forward suddenly, his voice rising. ‘And to his dying day he insisted you set him up! You and your friend!’
Jack turned towards the bench, ready for trouble. But Rebus wasn’t worried.
‘Look at me and tell me you didn’t!’ Hine spat. ‘He was the best friend I ever had, the kindest, gentlest man. All gone now, all gone …’ Hine held his head in his hands and wept.
Of all the options open to him, Rebus knew which he favoured – flight. And that’s exactly the option he took, Jack working hard to keep up with him as he fled across the grass, back towards Melville Drive.
‘Wait up!’ Jack called. ‘Hold on there!’ They were halfway across the playing-field, in the twilit centre of a triangle bordered by footpaths. Jack tugged at Rebus’s arm, tried to slow him. Rebus turned and threw the arm off, then swung a punch. It caught Jack on the cheek, spinning him. There was shock on his face, but he was ready for the second blow, blocked it with a forearm, then threw a right of his own – no southpaw. He feinted, made Rebus think he was aiming for the head, then landed one hard into yielding gut. Rebus grunted, felt the pain but rode with it, took two steps back before launching himself. The two men hit the ground in a roll, their blows lacking force, wrestling for supremacy. Rebus could hear Jack saying his name, over and over. He pushed him off, and came up into a crouch. A couple of cyclists had stopped on one of the paths and were watching.
‘John, what the fuck are you doing?’
Teeth bared, Rebus swung again, even more wildly, giving his friend plenty of time to dodge and launch a punch of his own. Rebus almost defended himself, but thought better of it. Instead, he waited for the impact. Jack hit him low, the sort of blow that could wind a man without doing damage. Rebus doubled over, fell to hands and knees, and spewed on to the ground, spitting out mostly liquid. He went on trying to cough everything out, even when there was nothing left to expel. And then he started crying. Crying for himself and for Lawson Geddes, and maybe even for Lenny Spaven. And most of all for Elsie Rhind and all her sisters, all the victims he couldn’t help and would never ever be able to help.
Jack was sitting a yard or so away, forearms resting on his knees. He was breathing hard and sweating, pulling off his jacket. The crying seemed to take for ever, bubbles of snot escaping from Rebus’s nose, fine lines of saliva from his mouth. Then he felt the shuddering lessen, stop altogether. He rolled on to his back, his chest rising and falling, an arm across his brow.
